


Just to feel Alive Again

by Guntz



Series: Far Away [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: AU John Marston has a Twin, Gen, Harm to Children, Homelessness, Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon, Self-Insert, slight Canon Divergence - Red Dead Redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-06 22:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17353679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guntz/pseuds/Guntz
Summary: “I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance.”― Beryl Markham, West with the NightMemories were all I ever had, but never would I lose myself to them because the moment here and now needed me more than the ghosts from a time too far for me to reach.





	1. Birth Day

The first time I asked him, boban replied that he unfortunately couldn't recall the exact day when me and my brother were born.

To be frank, he was too busy worrying over the screaming  ~~dying~~ woman giving birth to his children that were sired after a careless night spent drunk with his poison tucked closely to his chest.

The first thing I remembered was hearing a God awful wail of agony.

It scared me so much that I screamed, fighting against the invisible bondage I could not see but feel under my pathetic struggle. I shrieked some more when I realized I was naked, the air cool against my wet skin until something finally covered my mostly paralyzed body. I continued to scream even then, unable to form words, or more like demand answers to my captors, when another voice joined the cacophony of screaming.

Another wiggling body joined my side, their slick skin also smothered by the fabric provided by our captor. In a desperate show of sympathy to our shared plight against our possible impending demise, I reached for them and closed my clumsy, sticky fingers over their own.

They squeezed my hand in return, clutching on just as tightly and desperately as they felt.

Years later, boban would tell us that he couldn't remember the exact day and month, too lost in his liquor from the grief and exhaustion he felt piling up on his shoulders, but he remembered how the leaves on the trees changed into various shades of yellow-brown and deep red. He also remembered the cool breeze against his weathered face, his hair blown by the gust and his senses invaded with the coming of winter instead of city smog and garbage dumps.

That day, in 1873, a half-drunk Logan Marston stood over his twin children he named Blair and John Marston, his giant bloody hands keeping my crying brother and I warm and alive whilst our lifeless mother grew cold after the mattress she lied on absorbed most of the blood she lost from bringing us into the world.


	2. Little Scavengers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Money was scarce, stomachs were empty, and life was hard.
> 
> So what's a family to do?

It was a wonder how John and I survived this long with little food to spare. In the beginning, I thought me and my fellow captor were being slowly starved to death until we were finally fed something. We both were forced to suckle on wet fabric that absorbed some sort of strange milk, and while I would have turned away from such a demeaning way of being fed, I was too hungry to fight for my dignity.

Boban did his best and that was all you could expect from an alcoholic who inhaled his drink more than he inhaled oxygen.

What clothes he owned, he would give them away to someone else in exchange for money or find someone to turn them into smaller outfists for me and my brother to wear as we both got a bit older. Boban worked tirelessly at the docks and factories (and I remembered my history classes to know that the wages were shit), and it was hard to see him come home with cracked skin and dried blood on his hands and dirt on his face with only meager rewards to show for it.

It used to scare me when we were left alone by ourselves as there was no one to truly look after me and John, the both of us forced to wait for hours until boban would return. When the older man returned, it was to the sound of crying, hungry babes and the filth they made. It was a disgusting experience that I was relieved to finally leave behind once I was old enough to walk and take care of my own hygiene.

His efforts to keep me and John fed and clothed would be something I would forever be grateful for.

Our beginning was difficult and trying, a new father who was clueless about his newborn babes but knowing he had to do something to prevent them from starving to death, and it was through his efforts I felt incredibly humbled and indebted to boban (and more sympathetic to every parent thrusted into the trials of parenthood). The shock of my bizarre situation hovered over me at times, but they were snuffed back when I had to focus on looking after myself and my twin brother. More aware of my surroundings and strong enough to move on my own, I did my best to relieve the workload off boban's back.

With my body back in my own control rather than relying heavily on instinct, I became more quieter so to let boban rest when he needed it, gently hushing John when he started to get a bit fussy. I distracted the boy with games when he was becoming increasingly aware how vulnerable he felt without boban to keep us company. I gave John the bigger share of what scraps we ate because I didn't want to see boban give up his food the second time just so we could eat our fill.

The older man was our only source of income, his meager earnings providing food and clothes. It wasn't much to be honest, but I could see it in the older man's eyes how relieved he was of the brief reprieve I was able to provide him when he seemed to need it the most.

Growing like a pair of stubborn weeds that could no longer handle eating only a small amount of rations, I knew for certain that it was only going to get so much harder as we grew older. Something had to be done in order to keep John, boban, and myself fed until my twin and I were old enough to officially go out and get ourselves a job. I winced at another memory of history class, my rented textbook carrying images of haggard-looking workers not unlike my boban.

Dangerous machines, ridiculous long hours of work, barely making any wages, and conditions absolutely horrid.

There was no way I ever wanted to work in one of those death trap factories, and I sure as shit wasn't going to let my poor brother John lose his little fingers because those stingy bastards from high up couldn't be bothered to spare enough money to make work conditions more bearable for their hard-working employees. Scoffing at the imaginary businessmen with their stupid top hats and slick mustaches, I vowed to find a way to support my family without have to resort in something like taking a job in the factories.

So that was why one day, after boban left our small home to head for the docks, I took John by the hand and stepped outside.

It wasn't the first time John and I explored the small surrounding our home. It was like an open yard, but with a few patches of grass and a pile of junk which John and I used as a sort of clubhouse because there wasn't much to do besides stay there while boban slept peacefully.

"Wanna play." John tugged at my hand, reaching for the broken horse carriage with its splintered and crooked wheels.

"Let's go see stuff, we'll play later." I tugged him back to my side with some effort.

"Wanna play!" John insisted, but I stood firm.

"Just a look," I gently pleaded, giving his arm another soft tug. "Please?"

John looked like he wanted to stomp his feet in frustration, but he only frowned and bowed his head. I took his grumbling as consent and pulled him along towards the alley that was beside our little safe haven and closer towards the open street. As we reached the opening of the wide alley, I felt my brother push himself closer to my side, his fingers digging into the cloth of my makeshift dress as we entered the wide space of the city.

Chicago was bustling, noisy, and forever in motion like a rushing river.

"Boban?" John warily looked around, becoming overwhelmed by the people and the clomping of horse hooves.

"He'll be back home," I promised my twin. "We're just gonna look around, okay? Don't let go of my hand John."

I felt his grip on my hand and dress tighten.

* * *

Making absolutely sure to remember the path as we both walked down the sidewalk while avoiding being in anyone's way, and ignoring the looks we garnered by the adults, John and I explored the vast neighborhood.

Boban never took us out further beyond the alley we lived in. Our little haven of the shack house we were born in the only thing we know, the broken down carriage being the only other place me and my brother played in by pretending to be kings and queens and lords and ladies. The small patch of green surrounding our tiny space of home made me wish I could make a garden so boban wouldn't have to go out and by things that could barely feed his entire family. There was a time when an asshole vendor would give him something that was already rotting, but boban would take it anyway because it was enough to spend his money on.

John was a bit skittish as we trekked down the street, staring at the people who's faces blurred from hurrying up and down the street, but eventually the longer we went, the more confident my brother became in watching everything with a small sense of awe. I made sure to keep my hand on him, pulling him out of the way to keep him from being accidentally run over by a bunch of uppity jerks that expected people of our class to get out of the way because their splendor-like appearances mattered more than their human decency.

Slowly, the harsh-looking city began to change, and I realized that it was because John and I were entering a new district of the city. Taking in the fancy architecture of the buildings, how more clean and properly dressed the people on the sidewalk were (while internally glowering at their disdain-filled eyes directed towards me and my twin), I knew we had to be in the wealthy side of Chicago.

Kind of a dick move to build an area where the rich lived so they could feel better about themselves in mocking those who lived in the poorer districts. A case of classism at its finest.

"C'mon John, this way." I murmured to my twin as we both slipped between an alley to avoid more pompous-looking people.

Even the alley between the nice houses looked infinitely cleaner and well kept than the ones me and John were used to hanging around. 

I started peeking inside the garbage bins.

Back then, this action would have repulsed me because I was just as much a germaphobe as any other person who was used to cleanliness in their life, but with the here and now, I had to make do because it was a literal case of one man's garbage being another man's treasure. I often heard through comments and implications that boban would sometimes scour through the garbage bins from the rich districts to find thrown away clothes he would have outfitted for me and John.

It was time I started doing some garbage diving myself to look for things we could use for ourselves and our humble abode. John of course treated the whole thing like a game of treasure hunting, and I had to keep a wary eye on him to make sure he didn't grab something he'll think was food. He was at that age where he liked putting stuff in his mouth and I cannot begin to count on two hands how many times I got after him for it. The poor tyke was hungry, hell so was I, but I didn't want him eating rotten stuff covered in maggots and mold. 

A bit of looking around in the alley and we were able to collect a few fabrics (stained from food or thrown away because they no longer were appealing to the eyes of the owner), a couple of cracked plates we could use for dishware, and books—for burning.

Boban was illiterate. A poor man who was forced to work in the fields of him home before trying to make it big when coming in to the new country. Instead, all he got was more work and more baggage. I could read books just fine and I was tempted by the idea of teaching John how to read a book, but that idea was better off dead. Because how did one explain to their parent, who was unable to read, that their own child was able to do something they were never taught in the first place? I couldn't even imagine being sneaky about it because one thing John was not was being secretive. He was about as subtle as an elephant in a tea shop.

So burning material it was. 

"Wha's dat?"

Looking towards whatever John was pointing, I spotted a greenhouse. Making our way closer towards the greenhouse, I squinted my eyes through the stained glass to peek inside.

Lo' and behold, a variety of vegetables were displayed.

Carrots, tomatoes, potatoes, cabbages, zucchini...

"Bair. Bair?"

"C'mon John, let's go back home." I tell my brother as we gather up our things.

"Wanna play more," he pouted, looking longingly towards the rest of the alley.

"We'll come back tomorrow." I said.

"Pomise?"

"Promise."

Our hands were full right now, and it would slow us down if anyone caught on to what me and John were carrying, so it was better to be prepared for tomorrow when we would come back to nab those vegetables. And since it was a greenhouse, there was bound to be vegetable seeds and tools lying around somewhere inside, and considering how the whole place was fenced in, it would going to take some careful planning to sneak inside and take the veggies and tools.

Besides, those people were rich, so a few missing stuff wasn't going to phase them.

More than that, I didn't want to see another day where my family went hungry. Tomorrow, I was going to bring back food and I was going to make sure everyone had their filling because they deserved it more than the people who casually threw away clothes, books, and other items that my kind revered so carefully in every moment of our exhausting lives.


	3. Much ado About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clothed and fed.
> 
> But not paid.

There was no hiding what me and John got up to.

Boban saw it when he took notice of the amount of extra fabric he saw piled up in the cabinets, inspecting the soft material and eyeing the perfectly stitched seams. Perfectly good cloth to sell for a higher price than whatever vegetable bag he happened upon to be turned into another itchy dress.

He also spotted the new pots and pans with their ugly scrapes and noticeable dents sitting the crates we used to store away our kitchenware, more cracked plates and misshaped bowls so me and John wouldn't have to constantly share a plate when we got food wasn't solid enough to hold up with our hands. He also didn't miss how warm the small abode was when he entered through the shabby door, taking in the charred remains of the books which John and I threw to keep the fire alive.

There really was no excuse in denying what was going on.

Boban's dark eyes found mine, and he was quite certain that this was mostly my doing. I was the newborn who came first in this world, I was the baby who took her first step, I was the first toddler to speak, and therefore I was the first daughter to take the lead in caring after her family.

And John, my constant companion since the womb, followed faithfully.

"My very own li'l sprites," boban whispered to us from underneath his breath, large palms resting over mine and John's head. "Sticky li'l fingers, the bot' of ya."

Maybe I should have expressed some sort of concern at how flippant he was about the whole thing: two young toddlers running around in the dirty streets of Chicago with no adult supervision to keep them out of harms way; but in the end, I wasn't going to complain about it. He didn't say it but I could feel that this was his way of extending the so-called leash he had on me and John, knowing that there wasn't much he could do to stop us from going out but trusting me to stay safe while he was gone.

John and I had to be careful from now on since we still would be susceptible to mugging regardless of our age, and I've heard enough to stories to know there was plenty of sick bastards who preyed on vulnerable children.

And then there was the law.

There was a possibility me and John would be wretched away from boban and thrown into the nearest orphanage as punishment while our dear old boban was thrown in jail for the crimes of his children. So yeah, there was a lot of things my brother and I had to look out for.

But we would manage somehow.

We had to.

* * *

Ever heard of the saying: wrong time, wrong place?

It was sort of an accident. John and I didn't mean to come upon the group, didn't mean to startle them from whatever they were doing (which must have been something shady considering how much they overreacted), but walk by and startle them we did.

The next two years made my brother and I grow accustom to the familiar alleyways where we became experts in where to find the good stuff to take back home and to sell to the nearest pawn shop. Sometimes we got lucky with the things we found, and sometimes we returned with little to accommodate our home, but never did we leave empty-handed. Anyway, as we were out in another adventure in the alley to find some more trinkets to carry back with us, or maybe sneak into a greenhouse to nab us a couple of veggies (boban said he remembered being a farmboy back in Scotland, so he knew how to maintain a tiny garden we had hidden in the corner of our "yard"), we missed the group of men ahead of us.

To be fair, we were both distracted. John was in the middle of telling me a story that he conjured up, something boban had told him while I was sleeping, when my shoulder bumped into something that didn't feel like a brick wall or a cluster of trash.

Each party was just as bewildered with the other, momentarily shocked to do anything—until our brains kicked into gear.

Immediately, I jolted to a run while grabbing for John's sleeve, forcing him to follow my lead. Unfortunately, we didn't get far because someone reached for the scruffs of our shirts and yanked us both back with little effort. Me and John gagged, and then we struggled to escape from our captor's hold. I started when I heard my brother squeak, seeing him kick his legs uselessly when another grabbed him until he was barely hovering off the ground.

"Let 'im go!" I demanded. Unsurprisingly, I was ignored.

"What're you doing, _huh_?!" one of the men demanded, jostling us. "Sneaking up on us, were you?"

"No!" I exclaimed. Seeing another hand wrap around my poor brother's neck, I tried to lunge forward but someone yanked me back with a hand harshly grabbing my long hair. "Stop! Don't hurt him!"

"Blair!" John cried out, still flailing wildly. "Boban!"

"Shut yer fockin' gobshite!" barked a large man who's bear paw of a hand made contact with John's cheek.

Seeing the way his head twisted from the blow, I let out a blood-curdling scream. It was so loud, so high-pitched, it even startled the other men. Instantly, the man hold me muffled my mouth to silence me, but the damage was already done.

There was the sound of a wooden baton tapping the side of the building, a voice hollering with demands to know what the hell was going on. Without warning, the men dropped me and my brother like hot potatoes and I didn't waste a second gawking at my newfound freedom. Two uniformed policemen were turning the corner, at first noticing me and John until watching the group of adults running at the far end of the alleyway. 

Guess who they went after?

I forced John on his feet after the two men raced by us, and I pulled him with me as we went in the opposite direction—away from the chaos.

We didn't stop, even as our lungs were on fire and our legs burned and our feet ached, we did not dare stop. Once we made it through alleyway of our home, we collapsed. I pulled John close, tucking him to my shoulder where he finally caught enough breath to release a cry.

There was only one thing in my mind at that moment: we got lucky.

My brother and I were still trembling like leave from the adrenaline pumping in our veins, the flight mode still ongoing until we crashed, tears in our eyes, and the only thing to take away from that was we were so damn lucky to walk away with just startled nerves and a new bruise.

Back then, had something like that happened to me, I would have had a mental breakdown. It was jarring, it was disorienting, it shook me to my core and made me wish I had a hiding spot where I could crawl in and never come out of, but this wasn't the nice and safe place I knew.

This was the place where cities like Chicago eat people alive if they didn't toughen up to the harsh world they were born in; if you weren't lucky enough to be in a wealthy home where security was already provided for you then you had better be armed with a broken bottle because life in the big city was going to swallow you whole.

And I don't plan on dying twice.

* * *

We were hesitant to return to the alleyways so soon after the assault, the both of us still shaken by what almost could have happened to me and my brother had I not screamed. So, we instead took a break from our scavenging and turned to the open streets of the large city. It was an uncomfortable experience, what with the staring and the haughty looks and the gossiping women who watched us go by, but it beat being jumped in an alleyway.

The more out in public we were, the more likely me and John would be left alone.

It was a sickening thought to know that there was plenty of people out there who had no qualms in hurting little children (even killing them), but life was known to be a cruel bitch.

Still, we couldn't stay away from the alleys forever. Those were literally our incomes waiting to be dug out in the deep parts of the trash, not to mention the likelihood of coming across something like gardening tools we could bring back for boban to help his little vegetable garden.

"Blair, look," I blinked when John nudged my shoulder. "That lady looks like a chicken."

Following the line of his forefinger, I released a small chortle when I caught on to what he was talking about. Across the street from us, an old woman in a stuffy-looking dress was making her way through the bustling sidewalk with her chin up while her two miniature poodles took the lead. She was wearing a really wide dress, the kind which made the rear end look even bigger from the extra fabric, and then there was the scarf of goose feather which flew at the slightest breeze (which ended up being in some passing stranger's face). Her hat matched the scarf as well, a flume of immaculate feathers pinned to the floral-covered band wrapped around her hat.

"You're right," I agreed with him. "Just like a plump hen."

The boy next to me released a sweet laugh.

Call me a sentimental fool, but hearing my baby brother laugh was music to my ears. I turned my brother into a blind follower, an accomplice, and a tiny henchman who would do things at my behest when I asked it of him, and it kind of broke my heart a little to do that to him. When we should be playing, instead I was out venturing the dangerous streets looking for stuff to provide for my downtrodden home life, and instead of letting my brother go about his upbringing with as much fun as he could get away with, I instead expected him to grow up quickly.

So these carefree moments now and then? I cherished them. John was going to realize that not everything was what it seemed, and I knew the situation we were in was starting to sink after that close call in the alley. I wanted John to laugh and smile as much as he could now before it disappeared when life decided to strike us again.

A hushed curse brought me out of my musings, and I sharply looked around for the source.

Not too far away from us, there was an older-looking gentleman. I couldn't help but let out a small sigh of relief, happy that it wasn't some rogue looking to make trouble.

Dressed in one of those Edwardian fancy suits, the pudgy man was mumbling small curses under his breath as he stared at something that was directed downwards. Curious, I looked down—only to nearly roll my eyes at what made the gentleman flounder like some prissy cat.

His dress shoes was splashed with wet mud from where he blindly stepped into a crack puddle in the middle of the sidewalk. The older man's eyes darted around, probably looking for some shoe shiner stand to wipe the stains off, but there was no such establishment to be found. You would think that the next course of action would be to bear with the mess a little longer until finding a shoe shiner, or at least wait until you arrived home to take care of the issue lickety-split.

But alas, the poor bastard was too distraught in the mind to do so.

The man continued to fumble and curse, looking frantically around for anyone to help him with his "issue", but everyone ignored him. The longer I watched, the more pathetic the scene became.

But I still couldn't help myself in watching the gentleman. Every one of his fellow socialites were treating him like he was this invisible space, their eyes looking past him like he had momentarily blipped out of their existence. This was probably quite the experience for him, I thought, to finally see how it felt for others to snub him over something he had no control in.

"Do you need help, mister?" I asked.

I blinked.

_'Why the fuck did I just ask him that?!'_

The old coot whipped his head towards me, white bushy eyes rising up to make his already wrinkled forehead look even more saggier. In turn, I raised a single brow at him.

"I don't think you have a rag on you, young lady, let alone a handkerchief."

Rude much? John's quiet glowering at the man seemed to think so.

I shrugged. "You can stand there all you like with those dirty shoes. No skin off my back, mister."

Standing up, I offered my hand to John who took it. With the both of us about to leave and head back home, we stopped when a strangled noise from behind us beckoned our attention once more.

Looking back, I gave the old gentleman an expectant look. "Yes?"

The older man said nothing, but he made a quick gesture to his dress shoes to indicate that yes, he did want me to do something about his problem. It would have been fun to poke and prod at him, but I could see that even he was barely containing himself from exploding. Not wanting to deal with such drama myself, I pulled out a strap of cloth I usually kept with me to tie my hair back. Beckoning the gentleman to stand near the edge of the sidewalk, I stepped on the side of the road where I wasn't in danger of being run over by horse carriages. Carefully, because the man was eyeing me like a hawk, I worked to scrape away the wet mud from his dress shoes.

It took some time, but eventually the stuff came off and I was looking at a reflection of my face from the surface of his leather brown dress shoes.

"Oh, thank you so much!" he said, voice delighted.

"Uh-huh." I nodded while rolling up the cloth to tuck it back into my stitched pocket. I wasn't going to have to wash it later on.

"Here," I looked up—only for my eyes to grow wide like saucers.

A few bills were sitting on the palm of the man's gloved hand. Gingerly, I reached for the money and counted them to three dollars. It wasn't much, but it was the first time I held notes rather than coins and pennies. John stepped in close, inspecting the bills with their portraits and designs.

"I must be off. Good day to you children!"

And just like that, John and I watched the old fussy gentleman walk away after handing us a few bills in exchange for tidying up his shoes.

John picked at the bills in my hands. "Who are these people? And why did he give us scraps of paper?"

Oh, John...

"It's money." I explained to him. "Now let's hide it and hurry home. Somebody might try to take this stuff from us."

They would the longer we held this stuff out in the open. Like I said before, the city would eat people alive if they weren't tough or careful, and me and John would be easy pickings. Stuffing the bills in his inner pockets that boban helped stitch, we bolted homeward.

I guess now I had another means of providing for my family.


End file.
